Winter Warriors (6 page)

Kebra gave a tired smile. “If I had entered, most of the
Drenai soldiers would have bet on me. They would lose their money.”

“That would be a good reason to decline,” agreed Nogusta. “If it were truly the reason.”

“What is it you want from me?” stormed Kebra. “You think there is a question of honor at stake here?”

“No, not honor. Pride. False pride, at that. Without losers, Kebra, there would be no competitions at all. There will be more than a hundred archers taking part in the tourney. Only one will win. Of the ninety-nine losers more than half will know they cannot win before they draw the first shaft. Yet still they will try. You say your eyes are fading. I know that is true. But it is distance that troubles you. Two of the three events require speed, skill, and talent. Only the third is shot over distance. You would still be in the top ten.”

Kebra stalked away from the fence. Nogusta followed him. “When the day comes that you don’t wish to hear the truth from me,” he said, “you merely have to say so.”

The bowman paused and sighed. “What is the truth here, Nogusta?”

The black man leaned in close. “You demean the championship by refusing to take part. The new champion will feel he has not earned the title. In part, I fear, this is why you have declined.”

“And what if it is? He will still earn a hundred gold pieces. He will still be honored by the king and carried shoulder-high around the park.”

“But he will not have beaten the legendary Kebra. I seem to recall your delight fifteen years ago when you took the Silver Arrow from the hands of Menion. He was as old as you are now when he stood against you in the final. And you beat him finally only when it came to the distant targets. Could it be that his eyes were fading?”

Bison strolled over to where they stood. “Going to be a great day,” he said, wiping crumbs from his white mustache. “The Ventrian sorcerer Kalizkan has promised a display no one will ever forget. I hope he conjures a dragon. I’ve always
wanted to see a dragon.” The bald giant looked from one man to the other. “What is it? What am I missing here?”

“Nothing,” said Nogusta. “We were just involved in a philosophical debate.”

“I hate those,” said Bison. “I never understand a word. Glad I missed it. By the way, I’ve entered the wrestling. I hope you two will be cheering for me.”

Nogusta chuckled. “Is that big tribesman taking part this year?”

“Of course.”

“He must have thrown you ten feet last year. It was only luck that you landed headfirst and thereby avoided injury.”

Bison scowled. “He caught me by surprise. I’ll take him this year—if we’re matched.”

“How many times have you entered this competition?” asked Kebra.

“I don’t know. Almost every year. Thirty times, maybe.”

“You think you’ll win this time?”

“Of course I’ll win. I’ve never been stronger.”

Nogusta laid his hand on Bison’s massive shoulder. “It doesn’t concern you that you’ve said the same thing for more than thirty years? And yet you’ve never even reached the quarterfinals.”

“Why should it?” asked Bison. “Anyway, I did reach the quarters once, didn’t I? It was during the Skathian campaign. I was beaten by Coris.” He grinned. “You remember him? Big, blond fellow. Died at the siege of Mellicane.”

“You are quite right,” said Nogusta. “Coris was beaten in the semifinal. I remember losing money on him.”

“I’ve never lost money on the king’s birthday,” Bison said happily. “I always bet on you, Kebra.” His smile faded, and he swore. “This will be the last year when you pay off all my winter debts.”

“Not this year, my friend,” said Kebra. “I’m not entered.”

“I thought you might forget,” said Bison, “so I entered you myself.”

“Tell me you are joking,” said Kebra, his voice cold.

“I never joke about my debts. Shouldn’t you be out there practicing?”

The crowds were beginning to gather as Dagorian strolled out onto the meadow. He was uncomfortable in full armor, the gilded black and gold breastplate hanging heavy on his slim shoulders. Still, he thought, at least I don’t have to wear the heavy plumed helm. The cheek guards chafed his face, and despite the padded cap he wore below it, the helm did not sit right. Once when the king had called out to him, Dagorian had turned sharply and the helm had swiveled on his head, the left cheek guard sliding over his left eye. Everyone had laughed. Dagorian had never wanted to be a soldier, but when the father was a hero general—and, worse, a dead hero general—the son was left with little choice.

And he had been lucky. The White Wolf had taken him onto his staff and had spent time teaching the youngster tactics and logistics. While Dagorian did not enjoy soldiering, he had discovered he had a talent for it, and that made a life of campaigning at least marginally tolerable.

The preparations for the king’s birthday were complete now, and within the hour the crowds would begin to surge through the gates. The sky was clear, the new day less cold than the previous one. Spring was coming. Only in the evenings now did the temperature drop below freezing. Dagorian saw the three old warriors talking by the fence rail. He strolled across to where they stood. As he approached, Kebra the Bowman strode away. He looks angry, thought Dagorian. The black swordsman saw Dagorian approach and gave a salute.

“Good morning to you, Nogusta,” said the officer. “You fought well yesterday.”

“He does that,” Bison said with a wide, gap-toothed grin. “You’re the son of Catoris, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good man,” said Bison. “You could always rely on the Third Lancers when he was in command. He was a hard bastard, though. Ten lashes I got when I didn’t salute fast enough.
Still, that’s the nobility for you.” He swung to Nogusta. “You want more pie?” The black man shook his head, and Bison ambled away toward one of the food tents.

Dagorian grinned. “Did he just praise my father or insult him?” he asked.

“A little of both,” said Nogusta.

“An unusual man.”

“Bison or your father?”

“Bison. Are you entered in any of the tournaments?”

“No,” said the black man.

“Why not? You are a superb swordsman.”

“I don’t play games with swords. And you?”

“Yes,” answered Dagorian. “In the saber tourney.”

“You will face Antikas Karios in the final.”

Dagorian looked surprised. “How can you know that?”

Nogusta lifted his hand and touched the center of his brow. “I have the third eye,” he said.

“And what is that?”

The black man smiled. “It is a gift—or perhaps a curse—I was born with.”

“Do I win or lose?”

“The gift is not that precise,” Nogusta told him with a smile. “It strikes like lightning, leaving an image. I can neither predict nor direct it. It comes or it …” His smile faded, and his expression hardened. Dagorian looked closely at the man. It seemed he was no longer aware of the officer’s presence. Then he sighed. “I am sorry,” he said. “I was momentarily distracted.”

“You saw another vision?” asked Dagorian.

“Yes.”

“Did it concern the saber tourney?”

“No, it did not. I am sure you will acquit yourself well. Tell me, how is the White Wolf?” he asked suddenly.

“He is well and preparing plans for the return home. Why do you ask?”

“Malikada will try to kill him.” The words were spoken softly but with great authority. The black man was not venturing an opinion but stating a fact.

“This is what you saw?”

“I need no mystic talent to make that prediction.”

“Then I think you are wrong,” said Dagorian. “Malikada is the king’s general now. Banelion does not stand in his way. Indeed, he will be going home in three days, to retire.”

“Even so, his life is in danger.”

“Perhaps you should speak to the general about this,” Dagorian said stiffly.

Nogusta shrugged. “There is no need. He knows it as well as I. Cerez was Malikada’s favorite. He believed him to be almost invincible. Yesterday he learned a hard lesson. He will want revenge.”

“If that is true, will he not seek revenge against you also?”

“Indeed he will,” agreed Nogusta.

“You seem remarkably unperturbed by the prospect.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Nogusta told him.

As the morning wore on, Nogusta’s words continued to haunt the young officer. They had been spoken with such quiet certainty that the more Dagorian thought of them, the more convinced he became of the truth they contained. Malikada was not known as a forgiving man. There were many stories among the Drenai officers concerning the Ventrian prince and his methods. One story had it that Malikada once had beat a servant to death for ruining one of his shirts. As far as Dagorian knew, there was no evidence to support the tale, but it highlighted the popular view of Malikada.

Such a man would indeed nurse a grudge against Banelion.

With at least another two hours before the start of his duties, Dagorian decided to seek out the general. He loved the old man in a way he had never learned to love his own father. Often he had tried to work out why, but the answer escaped him. Both were hard, cold men, addicted to war and the methods of war. And yet with Banelion he could relax, finding words easy and conversation smooth. With his father his throat would tighten, his brain melt. Clear and concise thoughts would travel from his mind to his mouth, appearing
to become drunk on the way, spilling out—at least to himself—as stuttering gibberish.

“Spit it out, boy!” Catoris would yell, and the words would dry up, and Dagorian would stand very still, feeling very foolish.

In all his life he could only recall one moment when his father had shown him affection. And that had been after the duel. A nobleman named Rogun had challenged Dagorian. It was all so stupid. A young woman had smiled at him, and he had returned the compliment. The man with her had stormed across the street. He had slapped Dagorian across the face and issued a challenge.

They had met on the cavalry parade ground at dawn the following day. Catoris had been present. He had watched the fight without expression, but when Dagorian had delivered the killing stroke, he had run forward and embraced him clumsily. He remembered the incident now with regret, for instead of returning the embrace, he had angrily pulled clear and hurled his sword aside. “It was all so stupid!” he had stormed. “He made me kill him for a smile.”

“It was a duel of honor,” his father had said lamely. “You should be proud.”

“I am sick to my stomach,” Dagorian had said.

The following day he had entered the monastery at Corteswain and pledged his life to the Source.

When his father had died at Mellicane, leading a charge that had saved the king’s life, Dagorian had known enormous grief. He did not doubt that his father loved him, or indeed that he loved his father. But—apart from that one embrace—the two of them had never been able to show their affection for each other.

Shaking off the memories, Dagorian approached the gates and saw the crowds waiting patiently outside. They parted and cheered as the Ventrian sorcerer Kalizkan made his entrance. Tall and dignified, wearing robes of silver satin edged with golden thread, the silver-bearded Kalizkan smiled and waved, stopping here and there to speak to people in the throng. Six young children stayed close by him, holding to
the tassels of his belt. He halted before a young woman with two children. She was wearing the black sash of the recently widowed, and the children looked thin and undernourished. Kalizkan leaned in close to her and lifted his hand toward the cheap tin brooch she wore upon her ragged dress. “A pretty piece,” he said, “but for a lady so sad it ought to be gold.” Light danced from his fingers, and the brooch gleamed in the sunlight. Where it had sat close to the dress, the sheer weight of the new gold made it hang down. The woman fell to her knees and kissed Kalizkan’s robes. Dagorian smiled. Such deeds as this had made the sorcerer popular with the people. He had also turned his vast home in the northern quarter into an orphanage and spent much of his free time touring the slum areas, bringing deserted children to his house.

Dagorian had met him only once—a brief introduction at the palace with twenty other new officers. But he liked the man instinctively. The sorcerer gave a last wave to the crowd and led his children into the park. Dagorian bowed as he approached.

“Good morning to you, young Dagorian,” said Kalizkan, his voice curiously high-pitched. “A fine day and not too cold.”

The officer was surprised that Kalizkan had remembered his name. “Indeed, sir. I am told you have prepared a wondrous exhibition for the king.”

“Modesty forbids me to boast, Dagorian,” Kalizkan said with a mischievous grin. “But my little friends and I will certainly attempt something special. Isn’t that right?” he said, kneeling down and ruffling the blond hair of a small boy.

“Yes, Uncle. We will make the king very happy,” said the child.

Kalizkan pushed himself to his feet and smoothed down his silver satin robes. They matched the color of his long thin beard and highlighted the summer sky blue of his eyes. “Well, come along, my children,” he said. With a wave to Dagorian the tall sorcerer strode on.

Dagorian moved out through the gates and along the highway to where the horses of the officers were stabled. Saddling
his chestnut gelding, he rode out to where the White Wolf was camped, west of the city walls. The camp itself was largely deserted, since most of the men would be at the celebrations, but there was a handful of sentries, two of whom were standing outside Banelion’s large black tent. Dagorian dismounted and approached the men.

“Is the general accepting visitors?” he asked. One of the sentries lifted the tent flap and stepped inside. He returned moments later.

“He will see you, Captain,” he said, saluting.

The sentry lifted the flap once more, and Dagorian ducked into the tent. The White Wolf was sitting at a folding table, examining maps. He was looking frail and elderly. Dagorian hid his concern and gave a salute.

Banelion smiled. “What brings you here today, my boy? I thought you had duties in the park.”